


Unwinds from Within

by neveralarch



Series: Maintain Position [1]
Category: Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Collars, Dehumanization, Empurata, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Public Sex, Sexual Training, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Stockholm Syndrome, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Unhealthy Relationships, uhhhh literal brain fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Ratchet's always so kind to Pharma. So much kinder than Pharma deserves. So creative in thinking up new ways that Pharma can be of use.
Relationships: Optimus Prime/Pharma, Pharma/Ratchet (Transformers)
Series: Maintain Position [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885471
Comments: 23
Kudos: 100





	Unwinds from Within

**Author's Note:**

> My brain is STILL in Pharma Pharma Pharma mode. When will I be free.
> 
> This fic basically contains Ratchet using and abusing Pharma while Pharma thanks him for it - including extreme body modification, sexual training, and passing him off for sex. If you need details please let me know.

Pharma woke up with Ratchet's hands already inside him.

"Hold still," said Ratchet. "I'm almost done, and I don't want you ruining yourself."

Pharma flinched at the irritable thread in Ratchet's voice, then forced himself to relax against the medical slab. He'd been allowed to sleep at the foot of Ratchet's berth—but it had only been for a few hours. Now his chassis was peeled open and he could feel his organs being moved out of place.

Ratchet must have been struck with inspiration again. Pharma was honored to be the recipient of his brilliance.

He carefully onlined his vocalizer. "Ratchet? What are you doing to me?"

"Improving you," said Ratchet. He drew back to get another tool, and Pharma shuddered at the sight of his own energon staining Ratchet's sensitive hands.

He'd found that horrifying once. He was learning to enjoy it instead, as was proper for a doctor's assistant. Ratchet was so patient with him.

"Did I do something wrong?" asked Pharma, just to make sure. Sometimes he didn't realize when he made a mistake, not until Ratchet explained it to him.

Ratchet frowned, his hands stilling where he held Pharma's fuel tank. "This isn't a punishment," he said. "When I punish you, you'll know."

Pharma felt the ghost of an ache flicker through his frame, lingering in the claws where he'd once had hands, the single optic where he'd once had a face. The pain always reminded him that he'd been a bad person—that he'd prioritized silly things like compassion and mercy over his duty as an Autobot. That Ratchet had been forced to guide him back to the right path.

Pharma was so lucky that Ratchet had taken a personal interest in him, even though he was just another worthless half-traitor. It was the only reason he still had his wings. Most empurata didn't get to keep their wings or their wheels, but Ratchet had made a special exception for him. His wings were pretty, Ratchet said. The only part of him worth keeping.

"Thank you," he whispered, as Ratchet reached for a hacksaw.

Ratchet grinned. "Don't thank me yet. Wait until you feel the result."

\---

Pharma followed Ratchet into the conference room, stumbling a little as he tried to get used to his new center of gravity. It didn't help when Ratchet yanked on his lead and tightened Pharma's collar, but Ratchet was in a hurry. Pharma would never want to make him late.

Pharma felt oddly... hollow. Almost fragile, as if a solid shove against his armor would crumple it. Ratchet hadn't taken anything _out_ had he? Pharma thought all of his organs were still there. He hadn't been allowed to look at Ratchet's handiwork before Ratchet sealed him back up. It would ruin the surprise, Ratchet said.

Everyone was already in their seats. Prowl, Jazz, Ricochet, Ironhide... Pharma kept his optic cast down so he wouldn't accidently catch anyone's gaze. Most of all he tried to avoid the attention of the hulking mech at the head of the table.

"Ratchet," said Optimus Prime, cold and cruel. "You missed the oath to Primus."

"Sorry, sir," said Ratchet. "I got caught up in a little experiment. Would you like to see my progress?"

The Prime grunted. "I suppose we can make that first on the agenda. Any objections?"

"There's an agenda?" Prowl looked up from where he was sharpening his talons. "Fuck, who has the agenda?"

"It's a figure of speech." The Prime waved a hand. "This had better be good, Ratchet."

"I think you'll find it entertaining," said Ratchet. Then he turned and caught Pharma by his collar and the handhold welded to his wing, hefting him up onto the table as Pharma tried not to struggle or choke. His aft skidded against the table as he was shoved towards the Prime's seat.

Everyone was _looking_ at him. Pharma hid his optic with his claws and cowered.

"Your toy empurata," said the Prime, far too close to Pharma's helm. He didn't sound impressed.

"Yes, sir." Ratchet rapped Pharma's wing with the back of his hand. "Position six, Pharma. Panel open."

Pharma's thighs splayed wide, his panel snapped open, and he dropped back onto his elbows until he was just barely arched up rather than flat on his back. He didn't even think about it. Ratchet had spent a long time training him on the fifteen positions. It was important that Pharma's frame always be accessible to Ratchet, in whatever way he desired. 

"Interesting," said the Prime. He reached out to touch Pharma's array, and Pharma's optic followed the movement.

Oh. That was different. Where once Pharma had had the standard set of spike and valve, there was now only a valve. It was twice the size of his old one, and it was—it was so much more _sensitive_ , just the curious touch of the Prime's finger was sending little shocks up Pharma's spine.

"Would you like to test it, sir?" asked Ratchet. "You'd be the first."

The officers murmured. "How thoughtful of you," purred the Prime.

Pharma felt sick. He—he wasn't meant to be shared. He belonged to Ratchet, Ratchet who'd saved him from the scrap heap and shaped him into the Autobot he always should have been. He'd do anything for Ratchet, but to be given to another mech like a, like a _party favor_ , like—

"Pharma," said Ratchet, sharply. "Maintain position."

Pharma stopped trembling. He kept his thighs and his panel open.

Ratchet leaned over the table, wrapping Pharma's lead over his hand until Pharma's choke collar was pulled tight. "Be a good jet for me," he murmured, in Pharma's audial. "Make me proud."

Pharma's spark bloomed in his chest. There was a loud click as the Prime's array panel disengaged.

"Holy shit," said Ricochet, on the Prime's left. "We get to see the legend live and in person?"

"Oh, is this your first time?" Jazz laughed from his seat at the Prime's right. "The fearless leader fucked me three times last week."

"He did not, you fucking—”

"Quiet," said the Prime. His spike housing was massive. _He_ was massive. Pharma would never have been able to take him before his new upgrade. Ratchet was so considerate, to spare Pharma the pain of failure.

The chain of Pharma's lead jingled as Ratchet shifted into a more comfortable loom. The Prime took Pharma by the hips and pressed his spike flush against Pharma's valve.

Then he began to extend.

A spike extension was a slow process, especially for a mech the size of the Prime. Pharma tried to relax, even as the sensitive mesh of his valve spread and strained. It—it felt good. Not as good as the all-encompassing bliss when Ratchet indulged Pharma's embarrassing desires. But Pharma could tolerate it. He just had to wait for the Prime to reach the socket at the back of his valve and plug in.

A minute passed. Two. Three. Pharma was producing an excess of conductive fluid, spilling out of his valve and pooling on the table below him. Nothing else seemed to be happening.

"Having trouble getting it up?" Ironhide nodded to himself. "You gotta think about sexy things, when you're using an empurata. You know, torture, maiming, subjugating innocents—”

"Shut up before I have you executed," said the Prime. "Ratchet... this is very intriguing."

Ratchet's vents ghosted against Pharma's plating. "Can you feel him?" whispered Ratchet. "Can you feel him, inside of you?"

Pharma couldn't. He didn't know what was going on. The Prime should've hit the back of Pharma's valve by now, but there wasn't a spark of electricity or a wash of data. Just the subtle whirring of the Prime's spike extending deeper and deeper.

"There's a channel all the way through you now," said Ratchet. "I moved your fuel tank, your t-cog, all those little fiddly bits taking up space. Your valve goes up and up, and it doesn't end until it gets to the brand-new socket I installed in your processor."

The Prime was venting hard, his hands kneading and denting the metal on Pharma's hips. Was Pharma imagining things, or could he feel the Prime's spike nudging along his spine? 

"It'll feel so good," said Ratchet. "For him, I mean. I can't wait to find out what it does to you."

Pharma felt like he was being split open. His thighs shook with the effort of keeping them wide. Ricochet and Jazz were staring at him, trading jokes about the perfect spike-sleeve. The Prime's spike shoved deeper and deeper. Then there was a sick clicking, some combination of sound and feeling inside of Pharma's frame. He tried to swallow and couldn't. There was something pressing against the back of his throat, like it was stuck there. The clicking resounded, again and again.

"I'm stuck," grunted the Prime. "What did you do wrong, Ratchet?"

"Just a moment, sir," said Ratchet. "Tilt your helm back Pharma, there's a pet."

Pharma followed Ratchet's guiding hand, his soft, wonderful, skilled hand that dug into the underside of Pharma's chin until Pharma was just where Ratchet wanted him. Oh, oh, he could look into Ratchet's optics now. They were blazing with the light that always animated Ratchet's frame, the beautiful, blinding light that cast Pharma into shadow in comparison. He wanted, so badly, to be dissolved into it. To be freed from the shame of his traitor spark and be nothing but another tool for Ratchet to use. 

Something slid along the back of Pharma's throat and nudged against the base of his processor. It felt foreign, odd, deeply, deeply wrong. Nothing should ever touch him there except Ratchet's perfect hands.

"Oh," said the Prime. "It's like it was made for me."

He plugged in. For a moment, Pharma still felt nothing—but then the first wave of data crashed over his processor, without any of the gentle filtering of a valve's firewalls. Only Ratchet's hands kept Pharma in place as his frame shuddered and jerked. His valve rippled and squeezed, as if it was somehow trying to pull the Prime's spike even deeper into him, and Pharma felt himself overload again and again, each burst of pleasure tinged with an equally strong burst of pain. 

Ratchet was smiling. There was another surge of data, and Pharma's world was erased in a sea of white static.

\---

Ratchet timed Pharma's convulsions. Seventeen minutes and twenty-three seconds, and Optimus had four overloads in that time. An unqualified success. At the end of it, Optimus was effusive in his praise and the other officers were impotent with envy.

Pharma, meanwhile, was a drooling incoherent mess, still seizing with the occasional aftershock.

"Very entertaining," said Optimus, as he tucked his panel back into place. "What's the next item on the agenda? Prowl?"

Prowl stopped toying with his own half-extended spike. "There isn't an agenda? You said—” 

"What?" roared Optimus. "You didn't prepare an agenda? You incompetent—”

Ratchet gathered Pharma into his arms and returned to his seat. He'd get all the prisoners he asked for next time, wouldn't he? Prowl had been hoarding them in his boring little interrogation rooms for far too long.

"My good jet," he crooned to Pharma, softly so as not to distract Optimus from berating Prowl. "My pretty, braindead jet. I'm so pleased."

Pharma whined and squirmed in Ratchet's lap. Optimus glanced at them for a moment before turning back to where he had Prowl pinned by the throat.

"Hush." Ratchet ran a soothing hand over Pharma's wings and tugged his choke collar tight until Pharma couldn't do anything but gasp. "What's wrong, pretty?"

Pharma's optic was wide and uncomprehending, but his claw crept down to hook into his gaping valve.

Ratchet chuckled. "Feeling empty? I can fix that." He popped his panel. "Position three, Pharma."

Pharma's thighs spread to straddle him. His valve was wet with conductive fluid, smearing against Ratchet's groin. He still didn't say a word. Could he? Or had Optimus' overload wiped his core drivers, reducing him to little more than an interfacing aid? A long hole to fuck?

Ratchet would be a _little_ disappointed if Pharma wasn't as much fun to play with anymore. But they all had to make sacrifices.

Optimus had left Prowl trying to uncrumple his shoulder armor and was now discussing troop movements with Ironhide. Ratchet tapped the facial plate that covered Pharma's intake. "Open."

The plate irised open. Ratchet pushed two fingers in, enjoying the gentle squeeze against his most sensitive armor as Pharma reflexively swallowed.

"I love you like this," he said, stroking the line of Pharma's jaw with his thumb. Pharma didn't say anything, of course. Just swallowed and let his valve drip all over Ratchet's array.

Slowly, Ratchet began to extend his spike.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, you can share it on [Tumblr](https://neveralarch.tumblr.com/post/621297010919784448/unwinds-from-within-neveralarch-transformers), [twitter](https://twitter.com/neveralarch/status/1273732360446578688), or [DW](https://neveralarch.dreamwidth.org/107466.html)!


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